Of Scarlets and Harlots
by His Excellency TeenageAngst
Summary: It's Hallow's End and on this cursed night, Jack Radical finds himself on a quest, To best the Headless Horseman, the Death Knight, Of legend, but finds his company just, Too willing to make him fight their struggle. How will Jack survive and get his waggle?
1. Chapter 1

It was a dark and stormy night. Rain cascaded in sheets against the dead trees of Tirisfal Glades, the sound like a constant static filling the air. In the moonless night I could barely see the road before me. My charger slowly plodded along the worn cobblestone path leading deeper into Lordaeron, the torch I carried flickering in the downpour. Cinching up my cloak, I saw a light in the distance. A lantern hung from a stopped wagon with a pair of Forsaken waiting the storm out under its awning. The two eyed me warily as I passed but didn't say a word. Forsaken can smell the living, especially a paladin, and unlike in Silvermoon I would find no welcome in these lands. Still, these undead commoners weren't about to pick a fight with a human so bold and so foolish as to ride through their homeland.

A broken sign pointed me up a meandering path deeper through the woods, the direction of the infamous Scarlet Monastery. Even though the Scarlet Crusade officially joined the Argent Dawn and Order of the Silver Hand during the Northrend expedition, there were still some holdouts. Religious zealots afraid of anyone that didn't swear fealty to their cause, those residing in the monastery were viewed as an embarrassment by all other Orders and a blight upon the Forsaken lands. So when they called for assistance with their alleged Death Knight problem, no one was particularly keen on lending a hand.

Personally I would have left the Scarlets to their own devices as well but the Silver Hand couldn't ignore the problem any longer. Goldshire was set ablaze under the shadow of a fiendish undead, cackling in the midnight sky and raining destruction in his wake. Villagers spoke of it as a Headless Horseman, like the one told in stories to human children. Of course those stories held a grain of truth, Sir Thomas was real and his madness did lead him to die in the Scarlet Monastery. As for his rising again, well, who could say? I'd certainly seen stranger in my time, especially after Northrend. If this mythical knight was the cause of such terrors though then the Scarlet Monastery was indeed in dire straits, but more importantly, so was Stormwind. Needing to respond quickly, and seeing as I was so familiar with the Horde and Death Knights after my term in Northrend, I was chosen to represent the Silver Hand in assisting the Scarlet Crusade.

In other words, I was being hung out to dry. Again.

My charger shook the water from his mane as the lights of the Monastery came into view. The enormous stone structure was positioned on the top of a cliff, built as much like a fortress as a place of worship. The military strength of the Scarlet Crusade, even in its current weakened form, couldn't be questioned. As my horse made it closer a pair of watchmen approached, their white and red tabards soaked through from the weather. I glimpsed their stern faces as they neared, weapons drawn.

"Who goes there!" one shouted, his blade flashing in the torchlight.

I lowered my hood, revealing my human visage in case there was any question as to my personage, "I'm Sir Abrams, paladin of the Silver Hand."

"The Silver Hand!?" the other shouted. "Your corrupt Order dares show its face here?"

I steeled myself against the guard's callous words. My mission was to stop the attacks on my people, not play nice with these Scarlet Crusaders. Still, I had to be let in first, and one paladin was hardly a match for an entire Order. Taking a deep breath I pulled out the request for help sent by High Inquisitor Whitemane herself, the rain-speckled parchment still bearing her seal. The guard snatched it from my hands and looked it over, his face growing more and more irritated as he read.

With a terse grunt he said, "Wait here." I watched as he walked inside the entryway, his partner eyeing me suspiciously the entire time. By now I was far too cold, wet, and hungry to care about what heresy I would see inside those walls, all I cared about was getting out of the rain and away from the haunted woods of Tirisfal. As the minutes dragged on my torch began to flicker out, just as the guard returned from dragging his feet through every hallway in the building.

"Alright, let him in," he said, waving me on. His tone seemed a bit more deflated this time. The other guard sneered as I handed him the reigns of my horse and dismounted. I quickly stretched before heading inside; riding all day in full armor was not easy on the bones, especially in wet weather. As I walked inside the lit entryway the smells of the oil lamps hit me. It was a sharp contrast against the dank and low level stench of undeath that permeated the Forsaken lands. The stone walls were tinted gold with the warm light as I was led up the stairs. Waiting at the top, dressed in her finest regalia and hat, was the High Inquisitor Whitemane. Standing at her side was none other than Herod the legendary Scarlet Champion, his bare chest and mighty axe as intimidating as the stories I'd heard in my time at the Cathedral of Light.

"Greetings, Sir Abrams," Whitemane said, her staff held tightly in her velvet glove. "It is generous of the Silver Hand to send one of their champions at such a dark hour."

"Yes, well, the pleasure is all mine, Inquisitor," I replied, removing my soaking wet cloak.

"You are familiar with me? Then I presume you know our Scarlet Champion, Herod."

"Of course, and please, call me Jack Radical."

The Inquisitor's face streaked with insult, "What?"

"Your letter mentioned something about a Death Knight," I said, ignoring her incredulity. "Just what is going on?"

Whitemane blinked and resumed her lofty, firm attitude, "The Death Knight of legend, Sir Thomas, has appeared in our graveyard on the verge of Hallow's End. Powerful necromantic energy is at work here, no doubt caused by the abominations lurking in Lordaeron."

Shaking my head I replied, "I don't think so. The Forsaken are experiencing just as many attacks from this apparition as the human kingdoms."

" _You_ consorted with the Forsaken!?" Herod shouted at me. His tone would have sent a chill up my spine if I wasn't already frozen from cold and wet.

"I don't consort with the Forsaken or any other un…dead." Thinking back to my companion in Northrend I almost choked on that last word, but I held my composure. "I do however gather intelligence. Whatever brought this Sir Thomas back isn't affiliated with those of Tirisfal."

"Be that as it may," Whitemane interjected, "The issue at hand is the same."

"But High Inquisitor," Herod said, "What does this paladin possess that the host of devoted followers at our disposal do not?"

The High Inquisitor looked at me skeptically, "This is something I'm beginning to wonder myself. I expected the Silver Hand would send more than just a single fighting man."

I shifted my weight from leg to leg as the two of them eyed me over before cluing them in, "Well, I recently returned from the Northrend campaign where I slew a lich and dismantled an entire Scourge city."

The two looked at each other, then back to me, "A Scourge city?" Herod asked.

"Yeah."

"How?"

"With gnomes."

Even through his red steel helmet I could tell his brows were furrowing.

"Gnomes in planes dropping bombs… never mind. The point is I'm well acquainted with Scourge tactics and have fought the worst they have to offer. Between the three of us, this Death Knight will fall, you have my word."

"You had better be right, Sir Abrams," Herod said, stepping towards me. "For if you are not and that creature escapes into the night again, those lives will be on your head."

"I'd rather like to think they would be on your head for allowing him to be raised in the first place," I replied callously.

"What did you say to me!?"

"Enough!" Whitemane shouted, slamming her staff into the ground with enough force to echo off the walls. "If we fail tonight I will have both your heads, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes ma'am!" Herod said, backing away from me.

I remained silent and the High Inquisitor shot me a lethal glare. Gripping the hammer on my belt tightly I said, "Understood."

"Good," she spat, "Now, head to armory and make yourselves ready. I need to finish my preparations in the cathedral."

With that, Whitemane walked down the hall, leaving me alone with the hulking warrior. I looked up at him, he was a full head taller than me and with a frame to match. Other paladins at the Cathedral of Light regarded his battle prowess with a sense of awe and fear, a rare show of respect towards an Order so misaligned as the Scarlet Crusade. As bitter as I was to be here, this man was one I didn't want to cross.

"Follow me," he said, walking towards one of the massive oaken doors across the hall.

I followed him inside, past another hallway and into the training grounds. Most of the recruits around me were too busy with their drilling to notice the outsider. Every now and then I would catch a wary glance but the presence of their battlemaster disarmed their usual hate and fear. Those whose gazes lingered contained curiosity, I could tell these soldiers were cloistered here for years. The efficiency of their drilling was enough to inspire envy in an Orc but their senses seemed dulled. They reminded me a bit of the initiates I'd seen in my time in Silvermoon.

As Harod led me on we entered the armory proper and I began to appreciate the true military strength of the Scarlet Crusade. Walls containing racks upon racks of weapons ran down every hall. Some of the blades looked as old as the monastery itself. Herod threw open an ornate cabinet and pulled from it his axe. It was a brutish weapon not unlike the Orc axes and just as sharp. He swung it from side to side like it was a toy, demonstrating his cruel strength. Then he pulled another weapon from the cabinet and handed it to me.

Taking it in my gauntlet I nearly dropped it, the weight was tremendous. It was a mace, long and with a many-pronged pummel at the top that elegantly swept upwards like a scepter. I could feel the magical power flowing through it, as though simply holding the weapon affirmed my faith in the Light.

"What is this weapon?" I asked, wielding it with both hands.

"It is Morgraine's Might, so named after its former bearer," Herod said.

"Wait, _the_ Morgraine? The Ashbringer!?"

"His son, Renault," he reiterated. "He used to command our entire Order until his untimely demise upon the return of his brother."

I knew this story well. The traitorous Renault was undone by the return of his brother, Darion, and the reunion with the corrupted Ashbringer blade. His own father's spirit reached out from beyond the grave and took his life. This left a void in the Scarlet command that apparently had yet to be filled. At first I'd assumed Herod himself filled that role but apparently not. Perhaps his martial prowess didn't endow him with the ability to command an entire Order, or maybe he preferred slaughtering on the field of battle instead. It seemed to me Whitemane was handling the affairs of the Scarlet Crusade then.

"Do you expect me to use this?" I asked, shouldering the enormous mace.

Herod placed his own hefty weapon on his back, "I do. This Headless Horseman will be struck down with weapons forged by the Scarlet Crusade. I would have it no other way."

I tried swinging the weapon, the effort almost toppling me, "I can barely control this thing."

"Then you had better get used to it quick. The High Inquisitor will be waiting for us shortly."

Shaking my head I replied, "This stupid thing is going to get me killed."

"One can only hope," he muttered, starting towards the door.

 _ **Author's Note: What better way to celebrate Hallow's End than by bringing Jack Radical back for some fun in one of my favorite instances, The Scarlet Monastery? After so much doom and gloom I plan on making this more like his previous lighthearted adventures and updating every week in October.**_


	2. Chapter 2

As Herod and I walked the halls I noticed the Scarlet Crusaders begin to grow uneasy. Midnight was approaching; we didn't have much time until the monster awoke again. We stopped in the main hall to wait for the High Inquisitor to finish her prayers, supping on bread and wine in the meantime. I was thankful for a chance to eat, although Herod looked at me with disdain as I helped myself to nearly half a bottle. It didn't matter, if anything I fought better drunk than sober and god knew I'd need the alcohol it to take the edge off the coming pain. Neither of these Crusaders looked like they'd be qualified to tank a Death Knight.

As I finished a long draw from the wine bottle, High Inquisitor Whitemane appeared from the hallway leading to the Cathedral. I caught her devil eye as she turned the corner and some alcohol splashed from my mouth. Her pursed lips told me all that needed to be said but I wasn't here to impress these heretics. Letting the half-drunk bottle hit the counter, I stood up and hefted Morgraine's Might over my shoulder.

"My lady, are you prepared?" Herod asked solemnly.

"If Sir Abrams is finished inebriating himself, we may proceed," she replied.

I gave her a look but didn't say anything. For all their talk they knew better than to put a knife in my back, at least before the job was done. The Scarlet Crusade didn't send a message to every paladin Order asking for help just to off some random knight, though after the fact could be a different matter.

Herod saluted and began moving towards the far end of the chamber. I followed, the High Inquisitor behind me, glaring the entire way. "I take it members of the other Orders won't be joining us?" I said as we started down a long, candle-lit stairway.

"No, it seems the Silver Hand was the only one willing to respond to our pleas," the High Inquisitor stated. There was a tone of remorse in her voice I hadn't heard before.

"Doesn't it strike you odd that the others would abandon us, Sir Abrams?" Herod added, as though accusing me.

"No, but it's odd they would allow their villages to burn without investigating at all," I replied. "And my name is Jack Radical."

"Hmph," he sneered, "It seems even the Silver Hand has chosen to insult us with your presence. Truly the world has corrupted those we once called our brothers."

"Beggars can't be choos…ers," as we left the stairway the conversation paused. Torture racks lined the walls and bloody implements lay strewn about on wooden tables or hanging on pegs, each one coated in days old gone and entrails. Some looked fresh enough to have been used that very morning. I turned to Whitemane, disgust painted on my face, "What in the name of the Light is all this?"

"Our confessional," she replied simply.

I looked around once more and noticed the High Inquisitor giving me a particularly nasty look of satisfaction. This was, by all accounts, one of the most macabre places I'd been. Even with the lit candles the smell was almost overwhelming.

"They don't use the old ways of repentance in the Cathedral anymore, do they, Sir Abrams?" Herod asked, grabbing at a barbed chain hanging from the ceiling as he passed. "Our 'friends' in the Argent Dawn have grown soft."

"No, they don't…" I replied, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. The chains easily rose thirty feet in the air, yet even at the top bits of dried blood could be seen flaking from the tarnished metal. As the fear and death washed over me I was shaken back to my senses, a powerful odor that was all too familiar now raking my constitution, "What foul manner of atonement is this?!"

"The only kind our enemies understand," Whitemane replied.

"This isn't justice, it's sadism."

"As I said." She smirked as I gave her what I thought was a withering glare. "Oh Sir Abrams, don't get all self-righteous, not in these halls."

I stopped by the door to the next hallway, "You cannot seriously expect me to help you when you brazenly admit to torturing your captives. I knew your Crusade was corrupt, but this!?"

The High Inquisitor slammed her staff into the ground, the metal clunk reverberating around us with unnatural volume. Herod turned to watch as Whitemane adjusted her hat. The burning stare all Inquisitors are known for dug into my skull, "How dare you judge us! Your Order abandoned us to the Scourge, to rot in the remains of Lordaeron while your paladins traipsed off to Stormwind, leaving our people to die!" She pulled a barbed whip off a nearby table, the ends of it saturated with Scourge flesh, and waved it in my face. The scent of undeath wafted in my nose, mixing with the already vile stench of sweat and blood.

"We alone stayed to fight," she continued. "We alone were left to watch those we cared about turn. You cannot understand how that feels."

The look on her face, while terrifying, was familiar. Thinking back to Northrend, I recalled Fyodora's fate, the incident in the cave still sharp in my memory. Sadly I could understand how the High Inquisitor felt all too well.

"And in what way does that justify any of this?" I said, gesturing around me.

"Just as in days past, we make the Scourge fear us. Even now the wretched Forsaken refuse to come near these hallowed halls." She grinned, lashing the whip against the wooden table, "They know all too well what fate awaits them."

It sickened me to know these Crusaders couldn't tell the difference between a fiendish Scourge and the Forsaken of Undercity. Or perhaps they could and simply didn't care. Either way, I knew there was no convincing them. The hatred in Whitemane's eyes was rooted as deep and strong as her distorted faith. I turned around, Herod was watching with enthusiasm. Under his helmet I caught a glimpse of a wide smile, as though he was drinking in my fear.

"May we proceed?" he asked kindly. "The witching hour approaches and I would hate to miss our quarry."

I glanced back at the High Inquisitor. Although she only came up to my shoulder, somehow she was looking down on me, urging me forward with the condemning faith the Scarlet Crusade was known for. I saw no other option, I couldn't abandon my mission now, too many innocents would be harmed if the Headless Horseman escaped tonight. The retribution for their crimes would have to come another day.

I followed Herod down another corridor and into the open air. A sprawling graveyard lay before us. Once meticulously maintained, it seemed this area had become a breeding ground for the Scourge. Risen zombies and spectres roamed aimless about the rows of headstones, a stark contrast to the holy Monastery. Whitemane and Herod proceeded forwards while I hung back, confused.

"What is the matter, Sir Abrams? Afraid of a few undead?" Herod shot at me as he walked by a decrepit corpse.

I hefted the enormous mace over my shoulder, "This… explain yourselves."

"The Scourge are relentless in these lands," Whitemane said, gesturing to the ghosts nearby. "This graveyard is a testament to that."

"You expect me to battle a Death Knight when you can't even clear the undead from your own Monastery?"

"Can't? We most certainly could." Whitemane threw a holy spell at a nearby zombie, incinerating it with merely a gesture. "These undead are corralled, mindless, and pacified by our presence here. They make fine training for our more junior members."

Herod groaned, "Though it is not as much fun as capturing live samples. Their desperation to escape adds so much to the fight."

I stepped forward, the undead paying me no attention as they continued to mill about aimlessly. Whitemane walked as though she were strolling through a garden, her ruby robes wafting in the night air. Herod however kept a more serious demeanor with both hands clenching his massive axe. We approached the mausoleum, where the Scourge seemed to congregate the most. It wasn't much of a tomb, about fitting for a lower ranking knight, but the dirt beneath its marble walls was clearly disturbed.

"How much time to we have?" I asked.

Herod peered through the clouds, the storm just breaking overhead, "Not long."

The High Inquisitor watched anxiously as the Scourge near us grew more and more restless. Occasionally Herod would strike one down with his axe, the blade cleaving their rotten bodies in two like he was slicing paper. Harmless though they seemed, he wasn't taking any chances. I kept busy the same way, lashing out at any ghouls that came too close. The overwhelming weight of the mace I held made combat awkward but the blows were impossibly strong. It felt more than anything like a Tauren weapon.

Then, all at once, the Scourge retreated back to the recesses of the graveyard. The moon shined brightly down upon us as though we were standing under a spotlight. A gentle breeze flicked around us, whispering something in my ears.

 _Fallen paladins who bring men fear,_

 _Though I cannot die a death you know,_

 _Sowers of terror, your end is near,_

 _My victory nigh, your end so close!_

A metallic laugh filled the cemetery, ringing off every headstone and barricaded wall with a noise like weapons clashing. Down from the sky came a stampeding death charger, its fiery hooves leaving blackened smoke in its wake. Green flames billowed from its nostrils as it flew by us like a phantom, crashing right into the grave before us in an eruption of dirt and soot. We shielded our eyes and a shriek of laughter rolled over us as we strained to see through the darkness. Out from the cloud of smoke and dust stepped a fully armored Death Knight, his helmet skewed into a crooked smile of metal and flame. Blackened armor covered his body and in his hand the glowing Horseman's Blade was wreathed in fire.

"At last, the fiend appears," Herod said, his axe at the ready. I looked over at the High Inquisitor, she held her staff before her like a shield, determination on her face. I readied my own weapon, still unsure of its effectiveness in combat.

The Horseman trotted forward, his steed beneath him blowing hot ash,

"Such childish soldiers,

So lost to their hate,

I must put you down,

The bringer of fate!"

A strand of white chains shot from Whitemane's staff, wrapping the Horseman in holy shackles. He merely shrugged them off, the links bursting into sparks as he raced forward, his charger throwing us to the ground with its unearthly speed. I quickly got to my feet as he started to come around again, his steed leaving small burning hoofprints in the muddy grass. With the mace at the ready I waited until he drew close then lunged forward. Morgraine's Might was so awkward in my hands that I nearly toppled over myself, missing the agile Horseman by a mile.

Herod's axe wasn't nearly so unwieldy though and he managed to get a clean slice on the galloping creature as it ran by. For his effort he received a nasty cut from the Horseman's passing blade. The undead mount seemed unimpeded by the gash left by his axe, a wound that to any living horse would have meant death. The Horseman circled again, fire blazing in his free hand as he held his sword high in the air. Lashing at Herod once more, he flung his spell in the direction of the priest.

The High Inquisitor cried out her power word, wrapping herself in a holy shield just as the conflagration struck. Although she was unharmed it seemed to require great effort to maintain the spell. I channeled the Light myself, holding an exorcism at the ready as he came around for a third strike. The Horseman drew nearer and I flung it straight at his steed, causing it to rear up in pain and anger. This surprise sent the Horseman toppling to the ground, his detached head rolling off behind a gravestone. The death charger threw its front hooves at me in desperation, in a full fury now that it was deprived its rider.

I hefted the cumbersome weapon high in the air and brought it straight down, striking the charger right in the shoulder. Holy magic reverberated through the weapon as it hit, almost as though the weapon knew it struck undead flesh. Even as hard as I swung it wouldn't have been enough to take down a full grown steed, but the horse was blasted clear off its hooves and fell to the ground, writhing in pain. Herod came up from behind me, axe in both hands, and cleaved the prone creature's head clean off.

"It seems you have a little more in common with your charger, Death Knight!" he cried.

The Horseman grabbed his head and placed it firmly back on his shoulders,

"Go ahead and have your laugh,

For I'll make it your epitaph!"

 _ **Author's Note: Apologies for the late update, I've been sick for most of the week and haven't gotten much of anything done. Also some rhymes may or may not be stolen from metal lyrics.**_


	3. Chapter 3

Herod stepped over the decapitated corpse of the Horseman's mount, his axe smeared with the ichor of the undead horse. I stepped forward but he threw a hand up behind his shoulder, "Leave him to me, Sir Abrams." He held his weapon out, "Death Knight, the Scarlet Champion challenges you!"

The Headless Horseman walked towards us, green flames licking from underneath every seam of his coal-black armor. He was massive, but Herod seemed to match him pound for pound. With the raw, invigorating fury of the Light, the Scarlet Champion surged forward and smashed the Death Knight with his axe, leaving a deep gash across his breastplate. The blow would have torn any mortal warrior asunder, armor or not. And yet, though shaken, the Horseman kept his feet. Herod parried a blow from the creature's fiery sword and struck again, this time down into the undead's arm, but the Horseman hardly budged.

With a sweeping cleave the Death Knight caught Herod off guard and sent him flying, the attack just barely deflected by the length of his axe. A long cauterized gash was visible on his bare chest as Herod landed on his feet. The Horseman continued forward, slowly and unrelenting. I stayed my hand, allowing the Scarlet warrior his due, but the High Inquisitor wasn't about to let Herod's petty ego stop her. Conjuring the Light, she lashed out in an attempt to chain the fiend to the ground, but her spell merely fizzled against his powerful undead aura. I hefted my own mace, watching the creature, ready to strike if it came close, but Herod it seemed wanted more.

Lunging forward he smashed the Death Knight with his armored shoulder, knocking the creature to the ground. Like his horse before him, the Headless Horseman became headless once more as a flash of Herod's blade severed his helmet, sending it flying through the air. It sailed over gravestones, over the iron pike fence and… kept flying. Heinous cackling reverberated off the cemetery walls as the head turned around, soaring above us of its own accord and laughing maniacally the entire time.

"What foul devilry is this!?" Herod shouted, staring at the abomination.

Distracted, the Scarlet Champion didn't see the attack headed for him. The Horseman's prone body swung wide, tearing open his flesh and rending him across the middle. Herod fell to his knees, grasping the wound in his stomach as blood poured from his gut and mouth. Quickly I dropped the enormous hammer and threw out a flash of light in an effort to save his life, but my weak healing magic barely stopped the flowing blood.

"Sir Abrams, the monster!" Whitemane shouted. I looked back, her own healing spell was radiating from her hands.

Nodding, I picked up the mace again and ran at the Horseman's body as it stood up. Light engulfed Herod and at once his terrible wounds dissolved away. Whitemane's healing powers were unbelievable. Rejuvenated but still unsteady, Herod gradually found his feet as I clobbered the hulking armored corpse. Instead of falling though, the headless body locked its blade in the horns of the mace, keeping its ground as though it had been nailed there. I struggled with my overly-large weapon, trying to hoist it free, but the Death Knight was frighteningly strong. With a long heave it threw me to the ground.

Herod scrambled for his axe as I rolled over and got to my feet. The Horseman's head rejoined its body and erupted into a whirlwind attack, the fiery blade whipping up a storm of flames that crashed straight towards us. I threw up my blessing of protection and the blade glanced off my holy shield, but Herod wasn't so lucky. Although he managed to dodge the worst of it, several lacerations nicked his skin and a wave of flame singed his back.

Seeing her Champion having such a difficult time, the High Inquisitor raised her staff in the air and channeled the Light once again. The Horseman broke his swing and plodded towards her while I waited, biding my time inside my bubble. I wasn't going to let it get to her but I needed to figure out a way to fight this monstrosity. He just wasn't going down, not like I expected, certainly not like Fyodora or the other Ebon Blade Death Knights would. It was as though he was indestructible.

As the Horseman neared, Whitemane lowered her staff and cried out, "Burn in righteous fire!" A pillar of holy flame enveloped the Death Knight and it reeled back in agony, its arms clenching the helmet on its head. My shield lowered as the unholy warrior stumbled around, blinded and confused. Whitemane rested on her staff, the exertion from the spell written on the snarl on her face.

I approached the flailing creature as Herod gripped his axe with renewed determination, his wounds still dripping blood onto the rocky ground. He started a whirlwind attack of his own, smashing the monster's body full force with the enormous edge of his axe. The Horseman jolted back to his senses and with a loud guffaw sliced the Scarlet's chest open once more. Herod bellowed in pain and fell to his knees, his axe still embedded in the Horseman's dark armor.

The Headless Horseman pried the Scarlet blade from his armor and tossed it aside,

"So one falls, the battle turns,

Now the crimson witch I'll burn!"

As he started towards Whitemane I stepped forward and lashed the Horseman with my exorcism, "You still have me to deal with, monster."

The Horseman jerked aside, accosted by my spell, and turned to me,  
"A noble paladin, here to fight,

For the same ones who corrupt the Light?

Betrayal is sweet, can you not see,

The players in this great tragedy?"

I lifted the mace over my shoulder. The Horseman was slow and methodical without his mount, slow enough that I would be able to place a clean strike if I timed it right. As I waited for him to attack, the Death Knight instead turned back to Whitemane, who was once again gathering the Light in her staff. I ran forward and filled the hammer with my seal of righteousness. With a mighty heave I threw all my weight behind the attack. The Horseman tried to deflect but this time I nearly bowled him over, my mace going straight through his parry and striking his helmet dead on.

The creature screamed in pain as the metal helm toppled off its body. Arcs of flame lashed around me as the Horseman's body began swinging wildly at the air, trying to hit anything it could. The High Inquisitor unleashed her smite, this time against the disembodied head rolling on the stones. The scream rose in pitch and green flames blasted out of it like a furnace. Finally we found something that hurt him.

A burning pain raked my back. I looked behind me to see my cloak in cinders on the stony ground, the Horseman's body readying another strike. Instinctively I tried to block with my offhand, expecting my shield to be there, but all I succeeded in doing was getting a fiery blade wedged in my plate gauntlet. Agony raced up my arm as I pulled away, the metal glowing from the heat. The Headless Horseman continued his flailing, catching me here and there, the fire of its sword burning through my armor like scraps of tissue paper.

As the blade came again, Whitemane shouted her power word and a shield of holy magic glowed around me. Embers scattered as the blade connected with the barrier. The Horseman's body immediately spun around and threw a conflagration at the High Inquisitor, causing her to double back at the sudden burst of fire. This was all the distraction I needed though. As soon as the body's attention was turned I ran for the head on the ground. Even with only one hand I had enough time for a wind-up on my swing, raising Morgraine's Might high above my head. The shrieking helm seemed to look me in the eye as the hammer fell, silencing it all at once. The body of the Horseman dropped to the earth in a clatter.

Dead silence followed. No violent eruption of his spirit, no death rattle, not even a howling last quip or rhyme. Nothing but the eerie silence known only in a cemetery. Herod was fading fast and Whitemane was thoroughly exhausted, her face streaked with sweat. Dusting off some singe marks, we both gathered what was left of our mana and healed the Scarlet Champion of the worst of his wounds. Even still, it was only with my help that he was able to limp back to the safety of the Monastery.

I sat him down in the hallway, barring the door behind us in case any of the wandering undead decided to try to slink in. Pacified or not, they were dangerous to us after such a struggle. The bleeding had mostly stopped but Herod's entire torso was black and blue. The scars from the Horseman's blade were fresh pink and painfully visible. I pulled the gauntlet from my own useless left hand, the blade had sunk straight through and broken the bone.

"A glorious victory for the Crusade," Heroid said through deep panting breathes. He eyed my own wound with a smile.

"That idiotic challenge nearly cost you your life," I grunted.

"Yeah?" he said, batting my arm, "And how'd you fair?"

I winced as he nudged it, the bone at a visibly odd angle beneath the skin. Summoning the last of my mana I cast another healing spell and watched my wrist pop back into place. I rotated it around, it was better but still damaged. "…I'm used to working with a shield," I replied.

"Shields are for the weak," he scoffed. "You hide behind them or shelter others, but here, there was no need. We all accepted the challenge when we set forth tonight."

Whitemane wiped the sweat from her brow, her entire face was glowing from exhaustion, "Put your bickering aside, we have won the day."

"Yes," Herod replied. "Though my lady, you look parched."

The High Inquisitor looked at her robes. They were singed around the edges, her own skin bright red in places where the Horseman's spell struck, but she was no worse for wear than either of us. What was most noticeable was her complexion. The formerly pale, delicate skin of the Lordaeron priestess was now clammy and pallid as the grave, her ruby eyes bloodshot and the color drained from her lips. She looked like a Blood Elf who'd gone a week without magic. Carefully she lifted herself to her feet, using her staff for support.

"I am fine, thank you," she said, her tone strong. "Though we should all retire for the night."

As much as I hated the notion of spending the night here at the Monastery it did seem like an enticing offer. My body was sore, my armor damaged, and my mana spent. I turned to the Inquisitor and asked, "Where will I—"

A blood-curdling scream tore through the hall. It was masculine, and though remote, it sounded strong and frighteningly familiar. My hand immediately went for Morgraine's Might but Whitemane merely glanced down the hall, unphased.

"I'm afraid one of our initiates has gotten in trouble," she said, still looking down the hallway towards the 'confessional'. "Herod, would you mind seeing to that?"

"Initiates?" he said sluggishly, still a little out of it from the blood loss. Whitemane stared at him with a blank expression. "Oh, yes. That. I shall see to it, my lady."

"Wonderful," she replied, then looked at me with tired eyes. "Now, Sir Abrams, if you would follow me, I believe I have a place you can spend the night."


	4. Chapter 4

I followed the High Inquisitor through the halls as Herod was left to recover and take care of whatever horrific fate befell that poor initiate. No doubt they would receive a harsh punishment from the Scarlet Champion if they weren't already in trouble, the other Scarlet Crusaders were all in their barracks at this hour. Only the night watch remained, leaving the passages eerily silent. The glow of the torches on the walls cast waving shadows upon the painted faces of numerous Scarlet heroes of wars past, some of which I recognized, but most I did not. Whitemane adjusted her hat as we exited the halls and into the crisp midnight air.

A reflecting pool lined with fountains greeted us, the granite stairs leading up to the lawn of the Scarlet Cathedral. It was almost as massive as the one in Stormwind, its spires rising stories above us into the quiet night. It seemed more imposing though, as if the Light was held hostage within rather than celebrated. A sick feeling welled in my stomach; it reminded me of the Naaru I found underneath Farstrider Square in Silvermoon. The High Inquisitor noticed my hesitation as we approached the thick cedar doors of the building.

"Isn't it grand?" she said, gesturing up at the stone monolith before us.

"It's… something," I replied, still unsure how I felt about it.

With great effort she opened the doors and a stale breeze rolled out. It carried a scent that was all too familiar: Death. Not the fresh smell of blood or the putrid rot of a battlefield days after, this was the musty, dry smell of repose. Faint candles, attended to by a hooded priest, lined a red carpet leading to the altar. We walked forward and the doors were closed behind us by two well armored centurions. Even in the shallow light of the temple I could see Whitemane was still weak. She leaned on her staff for support as she perused the isles of pews, refusing to let her condition interfere with her ritual inspection of her church.

Satisfied that everything was kept in order during her absence, she approached the altar, beckoning me forward with a wave of her hand. Gracefully she took a knee, her staff still in her long scarlet glove. I watched from a few paces back, unsure if I wanted to kneel in such a desecrated place. It felt like a shrine to a pagan god, or the office of my ex-wife's lawyer.

"Pray with me, Sir Abrams," she said. "It is fitting for a paladin to honor the dead after a victory such as ours."

I looked around one last time before turning back to the Inquisitor, "This feels wrong."

Whitemane stood, her eyes tired and obviously annoyed. At first I thought she was going to rebuke me again but as she looked me over her lips tightened into resignation. "Come with me, paladin," she said.

I followed her around the altar to a set of doors at the end of the sanctuary. As she opened them and led me inside I found myself surrounded by sarcophagi. A dozen Scarlet heroes whose faces I'd seen framed on the walls were laid to rest in large stone caskets, their reliefs intricately carved on every lid. Across their chests, held in granite or marble hands, were their swords, hammers, and axes. Candles affixed to skulls were arranged around the circular room, though the vaulted ceiling stretched so far up the dim light couldn't illuminate it at all.

"Sir Abrams, do you know why the Scarlet Crusade hates the undead?" Whitemane asked, shutting the door behind us.

"Because you think it is an abomination to the Light," I replied. "Your Order slays them indiscriminately."

"Precisely," she replied.

Crossing my arms I asked, "You don't care that the Argent Dawn counts Forsaken among its ranks? Or that the Ebon Blade now swears vengeance against the Lich King himself?"

The High Inquisitor ran her soft velvet glove along the lid of a sarcophagus, "Our Order is one that venerates the Light, but we also venerate death."

I felt my lip curl in disgust, "Somehow I'm not surprised."

"Not in killing, like your barbaric Order," she snapped. "In eternal rest. In the gentle peace that comes from the caress of the grave, and the right of all living things to it." She motioned to the graves surrounding us. "These men are as much holy relics to our Order in death as they were heroes in life."

"Your heresy truly knows no limits," I replied, more ashamed of being dragged into such a tragedy than by anger at this point.

"This is what our Order was founded on and what all paladin Orders have respected since the Order of the Horse. It is why undeath in any form is an evil that must be purged; it is an affront to death itself."

"And what of those who are not mindless?" I asked. "Those who have regained their will but are bound to undead frames?"

The High Inquisitor shrugged, "We grant them peace."

"You can't be serious. Do you expect me to believe that your Order does all of this out of respect for the dead?" I grabbed a candle off a nearby casket, "You use skulls for candleholders for god's sake!"

The High Inquisitor stood firm, fury dripping from her face as much as the sweat from exertion. "I shall not suffer your discordance in my church, paladin."

"I agreed to assist you in your time of need, nothing more. I won't be dragged down with your fallen Order's blasphemy."

Whitemane channeled the Light, the effort clearly taxing her, and brandished her staff, "This is a sacred place in a house of the Light and you shall honor it as such."

"This is a house of decay," I replied. "The Light would never reside with those that mistake torture for redemption."

A sickening smile curled over the High Inquisitor's face. I half expected her to lunge at me for such an accusation but instead she calmly raised her face, looking down at me over her nose with her burning crimson eyes, "Is that the truth?"

I didn't answer, fiddling with the skull-candle in my hand, waiting to see what she was getting at.

She raised her velvet glove, gesturing to the grandeur around us, "I have been forthright with everything our Order does. We hold nothing secret and our purpose is clear. Yet you come to our home and blame us for things we carried over from your own Order's teachings long ago."

"Teachings that your kind corrupted and twisted with each passing year," I replied, getting my armored thumb stuck in an eye socket.

The High Inquisitor stepped closer until the distance between us made me uncomfortable. "Tell me, how much of the Cathedral of Light have you seen?"

"Almost all of it."

She paced around me, "Almost?"

"Get to the point, woman."

She gripped my neck, her hand stronger than I expected, "Manners, Sir Abrams." I pushed her away, rubbing where her fingers held me as she continued, "So I take it you have seen the lower levels?"

"What lower levels?"

Whitemane's smile broke into a wicked full-toothed grin, "The floors beneath the sanctuary. They said the stone there is thick so you can't hear the screaming."

I shook my head in disbelief, "You're mad."

She came closer, inches from my breastplate, her fingers teasing around the back of my neck, "I heard it. For months I would lie in bed listening to the wailing of the guilty souls. The others thought I was crazy too until I snuck down one night. That's when I returned with one of these." She took the skull-candle from my hand.

Taking a step back I shook my head, "There is no such thing in those halls."

"Of course there is," she replied, replacing the candle of the granite surface. "Sometimes atonement is difficult to achieve and more extreme measures are necessary, even the Stormwind priests realize this. Of course, when your captives are almost all undead, well, often extreme measures are the only effective ones."

Without warning she threw her staff in the air and cried out. I tried to shield myself from the blast but none came. The Light drained from it and I felt a weight on my shoulders, as though sandbags were being piled on my body or my ex-wife rolled over in bed. Soon I found myself on the floor, unable to keep my eyes open. The last thing I saw was Whitemane leaning over me with a look of pure sadism.

When I finally awoke I was in another room. It had similar motifs to the rest of the Monastery; skull candles and paintings of dead Scarlet Crusaders circled the room while piles of tomes lay scattered about the chamber. I was on a bed, stripped down and gagged, my hands tied behind my head with a leather strap to a thick oaken headboard. Whitemane stood before me at the foot of the bed with a whip in her hands.

"Are you ready to begin your atonement, Sir Abrams?"

"Mmph mm hmmggl." I replied, hopefully shooting daggers at her with my eyes for all the good it would do.

"What was that?" she replied. With a flick of the wrist she cracked the whip just inches from my face.

"Mmph. Mm. Hmmggl." I responded.

Curious, she walked over and pulled my gag away for a moment, "Say it again."

"It's Jack Radical."

She shoved the gag back in my mouth and laid into me with a good wallop. My entire body was thrown into a spasm as the whip cracked the skin along my chest, cutting it open like a blade. I writhed and tugged back and forth but found my legs were bound as well. *CRACK-CRACK* she hit me two more times, my midriff welting from the stinging leather.

"You shall learn respect, heretic!" she cried, lashing at me again.

I writhed back and forth, trying to time it so her blows wouldn't hit the same spot over and over, but she was good at this. It seemed like a game, she would wait until my flailing subsided before cracking another blow right on top of the last. My skin felt like it was on fire and my head pounded with the searing pain. I pulled against my restraints fruitlessly as she watched, drinking every agonizing moment in. As I moaned in pain from the swelling she took something off a table nearby and dangled it over my neck. It was a leather collar on a steel chain. With deft hands she wrapped it around my neck and took hold of the leash, pulling it taught. I didn't have a lot of slack to work with on this bed but she made sure I moved where she wanted with harsh tugs.

"Hmm, no, you won't be redeemed by the whip," she replied, setting it down on the table. She strolled behind the bed and out of view, the leash drawn across my face, raking my nose with its metal links. When she returned there was a glowing-hot poker in her mitts. "We shall purge your soul with fire."

"Mmph!" I said.

The High Inquisitor grinned, "Yes, you're right, I am getting ahead of myself." She walked back and replaced the poker, returning instead with a silver dagger. I saw my sorry reflection in its mirror finish as she leaned over me, setting the blade against my shoulder and drawing a line across my chest. The blade was so sharp that I almost didn't feel it at first, but as the wound bled the pain erupted into a burning agony. Whitemane kneeled on the mattress and leaned over as if to get a better look, her eyes glowing with the Light.

"Yes… I can feel your pain. Your hatred." She yanked on the chain, bringing my head closer to hers. She stared me in the eye as she maneuvered herself on top of my body. "Let it out, all of it." Her arm swung the blade behind my back and I felt my own cooling blood run down my back, the pain bursting from the wound a second later. Whitemane removed her gloves and let it run over her fingers as I desperately tried to avoid moving lest I aggravate the cut further.

"Don't fight it, you shall receive the redemption you seek," she said, lifting my chin with her bloody fingers so my gaze met hers once again. I bit down hard on the leather gag, bracing myself against the next slice. She drew a line across my collarbone and I shuddered in anticipation of the inferno dancing across my skin. Leaning back she stabbed the bloody dagger into a table beside the bed, grabbing instead a riding crop. With a hard smack she nailed me right in the side, causing me to jolt upright. I was forced back down again as her thighs clenched around my hips, bucking me back against the bed. She struck again, cinching her grip on the leash, forcing me to jerk harder in reaction to her beating than I otherwise would. I could feel the High Inquisitor begin rocking against my hips as she beat me, a familiar rhythm forming as she tugged harder and harder on the chain.

"Yes, that's it," she said through gritted teeth, "Give me everything. Every dirty sin, let it out!"

How long this went on I couldn't say. It felt like years but it was probably only a couple of minutes. Whitemane went from punishing me to outright grinding against my hips, her red tabard soaked straight through as her face grew more and more desperate. Her strikes grew weaker until she dropped the riding crop altogether, choosing instead to hold herself up on my chest as she pressed me into the mattress. She bit her ruby lips in satisfaction as her hips straddled my traitorous, hardening member, my length being tugged by the moist satin cloth of her tabard.

Now that she wasn't beating the daylights out of me I had a moment to collect myself. The High Inquisitor's eyes shut and she took her hand off my leash for a second to reach down and adjust herself. Thinking quickly, I heaved my weight to the side, sending her rolling off me with a gasp. She landed on her feet beside the bed and immediately reached for the riding crop again.

"I'm going to…you…heretiiiic!" Whitemane doubled over as her legs trembled. Even while holding on to the bed it was all she could do to keep from falling as her orgasm wracked her body. A saw a few sticky drops fall from her thoroughly soaked tabard onto the marble floor. Timidly she glanced up, a look of deep guilt on her face. This quickly faded to anger as her orgasm subsided and she threw the riding crop across the room. I glared at her, knowing what was coming next but helpless to prevent it. In any other circumstance this might have been exciting, maybe even fun, but I swore to myself that before this night was through I would see this witch atone for her crimes.

After Whitemane collected herself she walked behind the bed. I could hear some shuffling around as well as the tell-tale sounds of metal in a fireplace. Flames leaped up as the fire was stoked and I could see her shadow against the wall, menacing as it withdrew the heated pokers. I pulled against my restraints again, desperate to be free, the headboard behind me creaking and swaying as I rolled back and forth.

The High Inquisitor returned to the bedside, but this time without a tabard on. All she wore was her pair of long crimson legging and her ever-imposing hat. In her hands she held a glowing poker, the bright firelight behind her casting deep shadows across her maniacal face. She let me soak it in for a moment, reveling in the anticipation of the suffering she would cause before straddling me once more. Whitemane pulled my gag off but didn't give me a chance to say anything before applying the punishment. She stabbed me straight off with the glowing rod and I wailed in agony, my screams echoing off the high ceiling. The poker cauterized an oozing wound left by the dagger and the smell of burning flesh rose into the air as I writhed beneath her. She twisted it malevolently as I gritted my teeth, spit and growls being all that I could force between them.

"Where is your faith now, Sir Abrams!?" she cried, sticking me with the poker again. "Surrender your sins to me! Every dirty secret!"

All I could do was scream as the glowing hot metal torched my skin. The bloody dagger wounds were closed one by one by the sickening sound of burning flesh. With every violent twist and spasm I made, Whitemane pressed me harder between her silky thighs. She positioned my cock inside her at some point with her free hand but I was too distracted to care. All I saw was her mad, terrifying smile as she leaned over top of me, the glowing poker slowly changing from orange to deep red. The Inquisitor laid it above my head, too distracted now by her own personal pleasure to go on surgically tormenting me with its now lackluster heat.

Moaning in agony my body went limp as she bounced up and down on the mattress, my dick pressing further inside her. Whitemane slapped me across the face and put her hand around my throat, "Surrender your sin to me or I will draw it from your blood!"

I tried to shake her hand away but her grip tightened, choking me and causing me to flail about. The hot poker bounced around, singeing my fingers, and I realized she'd left it by the bed. That's when inspiration struck. Snapping back to the moment I began to buck hard into the Scarlet wench, her moans now accompanying my own. Slowly I maneuvered the hot end of the poker onto my leather strap, the low sizzle of the material giving away signifying when I caught it just right. I held it in place, the High Inquisitor too distracted by her, eh hem, 'interrogation', to notice.

"That's it, heathen. Give me everything, all your disgusting perversions!" she whispered, squeezing her pale breast against her chest. Her head tilted back, sending her ghost white hair tumbling down around her shoulders as her moist pussy shlicked up and down on my shaft. I could feel the leather strap binding my hands beginning to fray but the poker was rapidly losing heat. The witch bounced up and down, groping herself as she slowly leaned over. Although she was mere inches from my face she didn't notice my frantic sawing with her torture device as I desperately fought to free myself.

Whitemane's body began to tremble again, her voice rising until it was almost a squeak, "By the Light! I shall… grant you… salvation!" Her hand reached back and grabbed my sac, fondling it with an experienced and purposeful palm. I writhed under her direction, the pain of my wounds giving way for a moment as I felt my own cursed orgasm building. Of all the times to be tied to a bed. Why couldn't it have been Nikki, she enjoys this kind of thing. Using what little leverage I had I thrust my cock inside her, feeling her warm juices begin to spill out. Whitemane's breathing became ragged as she shook from ecstasy, my own orgasm pounding away at my insides. I held the poker in my hand tightly and let out my pent up cum, a wave of relaxation momentarily washing away the suffering I'd been subjected to. The High Inquisitor fell on my chest, her eyes rolling up slightly as her body convulsed in pleasure. This was my signal.

With all my might I hurled my body forward, snapping the weakened leather strap and clocking the bitch across the face with the iron poker. She yelped in surprise as I threw it across the room, grabbing instead the dagger sticking out of the side table. In a flash of silver I was free of my restraints as Whitemane scrambled to her unsteady feet, gripping her staff as I faced her off with the blade.

"Don't be foolish, Sir Abrams," she said, voice still quivering, "Everyone knows paladins can't use daggers."

"Try me," I replied, swapping the dagger between my hands.

Whitemane lunged at me with her staff but I parried, sending her stumbling by me with the help of a well-placed kick. She hit the wall and fell to the floor, still too exhausted to properly hold her feet. I lowered the blade against her neck, the sharpened silver loosing the faintest trail of blood from her pallid skin.

"What… will you do with me?" she said, eyes wide.

"I shall take my revenge, harlot," I replied, moving the hilt closer. I knelt beside her, the weight of my body pressing her against the stone wall.

"Revenge!? But I sought to purify you!" she stammered.

"Oh?" I stopped moving the dagger, a wicked idea coming to mind. "Then I shall 'purify' you as well," I replied.

Her eyes lit up, "Oh, please, Sir Abrams!"

"Wait… what?"

"Do it, purge me of my sins, make me beg for forgiveness!" she cried.

"I… um…"

Whitemane braced herself against the stone wall, her chest sticking out a bit as she did, "I seek redemption in your hands."

My face grew dark as I dropped my weapon. "Do you think this is a game? I shall make you suffer for every soul you've purged in this place. I shall drag you down until you are but dust at my feet." I placed my hand on her head, gripping her neck as she did mine. Her face glowed in a disgusting display of hungry anticipation as I drew her closer, "You shall atone, Inquisitor, for I will take from you everything you hold dear."

"Oh, Jack! Please!" She grabbed my injured shoulders and pulled herself into my arms, "Sanctify me!"

With a stern look of stoic judgment I reached up and grabbed the top of her head. Whitemane screamed in fear and anger as I wrenched my hand forward.

"No, please! Sir Abrams, I beg of you—not that!"

It was too late. I stood up to look over my handiwork. Whitemane patted the top of her head and realized the deed was done, her honor dethroned.

"Have mercy! I swear, I'll do anything!" she cried, her hands reaching for me.

"It is done!" I bellowed. In my hand, light and immaculate, rested her Scarlet hat. Its perfect seams and beautiful ornaments gave off a magical aura in my palm. With satisfaction I placed it on my head and felt the power surge through me.

"NO!" she flung herself at my feet with tears streaming down her face.

"Yes," I replied, straightening the magnificent headpiece on my crown. "I condemn you to a hatless existence. Never again shall you receive the recognition of High Inquisitor. Never again shall innocents be butchered at your behest!"

The former High Inquisitor fell to the floor, sobbing. I conjured the Light and unleashed a healing spell on myself, the magic amplified by the wondrous cap. My horrific wounds healed before my eyes, I'd never wielded such holy power before! I looked around the room and found my armor sitting in the corner, thrown together like so much scrap. It would take some time to mend it after what the Headless Horseman did to it, but it was far more dignified than strolling out naked. Whitemane lay prone, wailing with sadness and pounding the stone floor with her fist in bitter regret at her circumstance. Shaking my head in both pity and resentment I set about reequipping myself.

Perhaps I was too harsh, this judgment was one usually reserved for only the most heinous of heretics. Death perhaps would have been more merciful. Or maybe I should have given her a taste of her own medicine, but then she would have enjoyed it too much. No, this is how it had to be. With my armor equipped and Whitemane's Chapeau securely on my head, I opened the door to leave the wretched Scarlet Monastery halls for good, casting one final glance at the quivering woman on the ground, hoping maybe someday she would find the atonement she sought, but silently reveling in her loss of headgear.


End file.
